The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(129)

‘You can’t think of anything Owen said or did that might’ve suggested he was planning to go away for a while?’ Strike persisted as Leonora watched their neighbours with anxious, owl-like eyes.

‘What?’ she said distractedly. ‘No – he never tells – told me – always just went… If he knew he was going, why wouldn’t he say goodbye?’

She began to cry, one thin hand over her mouth.

‘What’s going to happen to Dodo if they keep me in prison?’ she asked him through her sobs. ‘Edna can’t have her for ever. She can’t handle her. She went an’ left Cheeky Monkey behind an’ Dodo had done some pictures for me,’ and after a disconcerted moment or two Strike decided that she must be talking about the plush orang-utan that Orlando had been cradling on his visit to their house. ‘If they make me stay here—’

‘I’m going to get you out,’ said Strike with more confidence than he felt; but what harm would it do to give her something to hold on to, something to get her through the next twenty-four hours?

Their time was up. He left the hall without looking back, wondering what it was about Leonora, faded and grumpy, fifty years old with a brain-damaged daughter and a hopeless life, that had inspired in him this fierce determination, this fury…

Because she didn’t do it, came the simple answer. Because she’s innocent.

In the last eight months a stream of clients had pushed open the engraved glass door bearing his name and the reasons they had sought him had been uncannily similar. They had come because they wanted a spy, a weapon, a means of redressing some balance in their favour or of divesting themselves of inconvenient connections. They came because they sought an advantage, because they felt they were owed retribution or compensation. Because overwhelmingly, they wanted more money.

But Leonora had come to him because she wanted her husband to come home. It had been a simple wish born of weariness and of love, if not for the errant Quine then for the daughter who missed him. For the purity of her desire, Strike felt he owed her the best he could give.

The cold air outside the prison tasted different. It had been a long time since Strike had been in an environment where following orders was the backbone of daily life. He could feel his freedom as he walked, leaning heavily on the stick, back towards the bus stop.

At the back of the bus, three drunken young women wearing headbands from which reindeer antlers protruded were singing:



‘They say it’s unrealistic,



But I believe in you Saint Nick…’





Bloody Christmas, thought Strike, thinking irritably of the presents he would be expected to buy for his nephews and godchildren, none of whose ages he could ever remember.

The bus groaned on through the slush and the snow. Lights of every colour gleamed blurrily at Strike through the steamed-up bus window. Scowling, with his mind on injustice and murder, he effortlessly and silently repelled anyone who might have considered sitting in the seat beside him.





40





Be glad thou art unnam’d; ’tis not worth the owning.



Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, The False One





Sleet, rain and snow pelted the office windows in turn the following day. Miss Brocklehurst’s boss turned up at the office around midday to view confirmation of her infidelity. Shortly after Strike had bidden him farewell, Caroline Ingles arrived. She was harried, on her way to pick up her children from school, but determined to give Strike the card for the newly opened Golden Lace Gentleman’s Club and Bar that she had found in her husband’s wallet. Mr Ingles’s promise to stay well away from lap-dancers, call girls and strippers had been a requirement of their reconciliation. Strike agreed to stake out Golden Lace to see whether Mr Ingles had again succumbed to temptation. By the time Caroline Ingles had left, Strike was very ready for the pack of sandwiches waiting for him on Robin’s desk, but he had taken barely a mouthful when his phone rang.

Aware that their professional relationship was coming to a close, his brunette client was throwing caution to the winds and inviting Strike out to dinner. Strike thought he could see Robin smiling as she ate her sandwich, determinedly facing her monitor. He tried to decline with politeness, at first pleading his heavy workload and finally telling her that he was in a relationship.

‘You never told me that,’ she said, suddenly cold.

‘I like to keep my private and professional lives separate,’ he said.

She hung up halfway through his polite farewell.

‘Maybe you should have gone out with her,’ said Robin innocently. ‘Just to make sure she’ll pay her bill.’

‘She’ll bloody pay,’ growled Strike, making up for lost time by cramming half a sandwich into his mouth. The phone buzzed. He groaned and looked down to see who had texted him.

His stomach contracted.

‘Leonora?’ asked Robin, who had seen his face fall.

Strike shook his head, his mouth full of sandwich.

The message comprised three words:



It was yours.





He had not changed his number since he had split up with Charlotte. Too much hassle, when a hundred professional contacts had it. This was the first time she had used it in eight months.